


Drinking Games

by TearStainedAshes



Series: Let's Write Sherlock Winter Series [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drinking, Drinking Games, Drunk John, Drunk Sherlock, First Kiss, Fluff, French Sherlock, Humor, Love Confessions, M/M, Rutting, Snowed In, drunk!John, drunk!lock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-11
Updated: 2014-01-11
Packaged: 2018-01-07 20:44:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1124194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TearStainedAshes/pseuds/TearStainedAshes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John are snowed in and Mrs Hudson's away at her sister's for the holidays. Instead of putting up with Sherlock's bitching, John decides to loosen him up with some alcohol. A drinking game ensues and some confessions come out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Drinking Games

**Author's Note:**

> My first entry for the Let's Write Sherlock winter prompt challenge. This is my first time entering Let's Write Sherlock, and this one gave me a lot of choices, so I just had fun with it. All twelve prompts will eventually be used.
> 
> Part 1 of 10. Prompt: Snowed In
> 
> Enjoy!

'Bored!'

John groaned and stared at the newspaper he'd already read twice.

'John! I need some!'

'You are not smoking in the flat!' John lowered his paper and glared at Sherlock. 'And you can't go outside to do it either. Not only will you catch cold but you'll probably freeze and I don't have the medical supplies to treat a virus or hypothermia for a week.'

Sherlock grumbled something unintelligible and pouted in his chair. They'd been snowed in for three days and the snow just kept coming. The weather report said it wasn't supposed to let up until the end of the week, and it was only Monday. John was thankful they hadn't lost power, and also that Mrs Hudson wasn't stuck with them. She'd left for her sister's only a day before the storm hit. So far she had called each day to check up on them to see how they were coping. After three days stuck in the flat, not only was Sherlock claiming to be dying of boredom, but John was seriously considering shooting some more bullets into the smiley face on the wall.

'Three days!' Sherlock said exasperatedly. 'Three bloody days, John! I can't take it any longer! I'm jumping out the window so I can escape the dull monotony!'

'Like hell you are!' John growled. He grasped Sherlock's arm tight to stop him from running off. 'You are not jumping in front of me again. Not after what you put me through for two bloody years.' Sherlock at least had the decency to look ashamed. 'If we're stuck, we're stuck, Sherlock. Now sit down. I think I have an idea of how to pass the time.'

'Oh, you do, do you?' Sherlock sneered. 'And what, pray tell, is this idea?'

John shoved Sherlock back into his seat and moved to the kitchen to grab two glasses and the bottle of whisky Mycroft had given to Sherlock as an early birthday present. Technically he supposed it was for him as Sherlock rarely drank. He brought the supplies out to the sitting room and gave Sherlock a glass.

'Really, John?' he scoffed. 'Alcohol? I expected better of you.'

'Shut up.' John poured a sizable amount of alcohol into Sherlock's glass before doing the same with his own. 'We aren't going to just drink.' He grabbed the remote and turned the TV on, flipping through channels until he found Doctor Who. It was always playing somewhere it seemed.

'We're playing a drinking game,' he announced. Sherlock groaned again and slumped down into his chair. 'Oh shut up. You'll enjoy yourself. Now here are the rules.'

'Write them down.'

'What?'

'Write them down. If there are a lot of rules then I won't be able to keep track of them all.'

'Fine.' John stood and grabbed a piece of paper and a pen. He wrote down each rule as he spoke them.

_Doctor Who_   _Drinking_   _Game_  
 _1\. Take a drink_   _during_   _the opening credits._  
 _2\. If there are any special guests, take another drink._  
 _3\. Any time someone dies, take a drink._  
 _4\. Whenever the Doctor uses his sonic screwdriver or psychic paper, take 2 drinks._  
 _5\. Any time the Doctor says 'I'm_   _the Doctor,' take 2_   _drinks. Take 2 more drinks if someone responds with 'Doctor who?'_  
 _6\. Whenever a character says the TARDIS is bigger on the inside, take 3 drinks._  
 _7\. Any time the Doctor_   _mentions_   _fixed points in time or the inability to alter one's own timeline, take a drink._  
 _8\. Whenever a Dalek says the word 'Exterminate,' take a drink._  
 _9\. Whenever the Doctor says one_   _of_   _his catchphrases (fantastic, brilliant, alons-y, geronimo), take 2 drinks._  
 _10\. Whenever the Doctor regenerates or a companion leaves him, finish your drink_.

'Got all that?' he asked when he finished.

'What kind of catchphrase is alons-y?'

'It's French for "Let's go."'

'I know what it means, John. I'm fluent in French.'

'You are?'

'Bien sûr que je suis, Jean. J'ai été élevé avec de l'argent et une partie de ma famille est de la France. Bien sûr, je parle couramment le français.'

'I have no idea what you said, but OK.' John blinked and swallowed. He had no idea Sherlock was fluent in French. It was a beautiful language and hearing Sherlock speak it did things to him he would never admit to out loud.

'Tu es un idiot, Jean.'

'I am not.' John scowled at Sherlock. 'I may not know a lot of French, but I know you just called me an idiot.'

'Smarter than you look.' Sherlock smirked at him.

'Shut up and take a drink.'

'Why? What rule did I miss?'

'The opening credits.'

'Oh.' Sherlock took a large gulp of his whisky. 'Gah! It burns!'

John laughed, almost choking on his own swallow of whisky.

'Idiot,' he said when he could speak.

'Arse,' Sherlock retorted. John chuckled and shook his head.

They played the game until the end of the episode, Sherlock keeping track of when to drink by staring at the paper almost the entire time. When the episode finished their glasses had been refilled three times.

_I really need to invest in taller glasses_ , John thought to himself. He looked over to Sherlock. He was slightly weaving in his chair, his eyes glazed over. He himself felt a bit fuzzy headed, and parts of the room blurred together. Maybe watching the first Dalek episode with Nine had been a mistake.

'Ca... Can we do another?' Sherlock asked, speaking slower than usual.

'Another?' John asked skeptically.

'Yeah.' Sherlock nodded slowly. 'But one with the new guy. Wots 'is name.'

John thought a moment. 'Matt Smith?'

'Yeah! Him!'

'OK. Any particular episode?'

'Nah. Jus so long as it doesn't have the Darleks innit.'

'K.' John searched the DVR and found an earlier episode with Amy and Rory.

'These people aren't really stupid enough to think these things are actually vampires, are they?' Sherlock asked twenty minutes in.

'Shush,' John said harshly. 'Just play the game.'

Soon Sherlock was speaking fluent French without realising he was doing it. John didn't correct him. He wanted to enjoy Sherlock's drunken French for as long as he could. He didn't know if he'd ever get to hear Sherlock speak it again.

When that episode ended, both Sherlock and John were completely sloshed. Sherlock had fallen out of his chair and was almost sitting between John's knees. John had nearly fallen asleep near the end, his head resting atop his hand. It wasn't until Sherlock shook him did he wake.

'Wha? Wha izzit?' he grumbled.

'Jean ... Il ya quelque chose que je dois te dire.'

John merely grunted in reply, still not telling Sherlock he was actually speaking French.

'J'apprécie notre amitié plus que tout, et je te considère comme mon meilleur ami, mais dernièrement, quelque chose a changé en moi.'

John grunted again, keeping his gaze on Sherlock's blurred face.

'J'ai développé des sentiments pour toi. Sentiments forts que moi confondus pendant une longue période. Et maintenant, je sais ce qu'ils veulent dire parce que j'ai fait des recherches approfondies.'

John blinked and Sherlock continued.

'Je t'aime, Jean.'

'Oh.' John's French was still rusty, especially with his drunk brain, but he still knew what that meant. He blinked down at Sherlock, his breathing a little shallower than before. Sherlock looked up at him expectantly.

'Dis quelque chose. S'il te plaît, Jean.'

'I... Sherlock... you've been speaking French for the past hour. I don't know what you said.'

Sherlock's brow furrowed, concentrating on speaking English again.

'I said,' he began, 'that I had to... to tell you somefin. That... I value our frienship more than anyfin, an yer my bes frien, but somefin's chan-ged. I gots strong feelins fer ya an... an I love ya.'

John sucked in a breath and stared down at Sherlock.

'You... you love me?' he asked quietly.

'I'm fairly certain zis is what I'm feelin, yes,' Sherlock replied, a trace of a French accent returning.

'How long've you felt this way?'

'Um... Zince I return-ed. I didn't zay noffin' cuz I knew you woulda jus tol me ya wazzunt gay.'

'Well, I'm not.'

Sherlock sighed and looked down at the rug despondently.

'I'm bi.'

Sherlock looked back up at him, his eyes wide and hopeful. John slid down onto the floor and scootched closer to Sherlock. He grabbed his hands and held them securely.

'Came to terms wif my sexuality when ya was dead. Um... gone. And course there was the stuff I did in the army that I neva toldja about.'

'Wha stuff?' Sherlock raised a quizzical eyebrow.

'Hand stuff an blow jobs,' John whispered in Sherlock's ear. The younger man shivered and bit his lip. 'I did 'em to others an had 'em done t' me. I jus brushed it off as us blokes needing to blow off some steam. Then I met you an I had a bit of a crisis. But I got over it.' He leaned back so he could look Sherlock in the eye.

'And now I know I love you, too.'

Sherlock cracked the widest grin John had ever seen on him. He pulled John forward into a hug and held him tight.

'Je t'aime, Jean.'

John couldn't stop the soft moan that escaped at Sherlock's words. Sherlock smirked and pressed his lips to John's ear.

'Tu l'aimes quand je parle français. Veux-tu que je continue pour le reste de la soirée?'

John shivered and moaned again. He still didn't know what Sherlock was saying, but he loved it all the same.

'More,' he said hoarsely. 'More.'

Sherlock spoke sweet nothings down John's ear, occasionally nibbling the lobe or licking the shell. John moaned louder and louder the more he continued, his trousers growing tighter and tighter. He didn't even realise he had climbed onto Sherlock's lap until he felt the younger man's erection pressed against him.

'Oh!' he gasped. He shifted against the bulge and Sherlock moaned in his ear. 'Fuck.'

'Jean,' Sherlock breathed out. 'Jean.'

'Sherlock,' John moaned in reply. He rocked against him again, Sherlock's nails digging into his arms.

'Plus. S'il te plaît. Oui, Jean. Oui!'

John rocked against Sherlock in a steady rhythm, finding an angle that pleasured them both. Sherlock gasped things down John's ear as they moved together.

'Embrassez-moi,' he gasped out.

'Huh?'

Sherlock captured John's lips before he realised what was happening. John melted against Sherlock, the younger man picking up in the thrusting. John threaded his fingers through Sherlock's hair and kissed him for all he was worth. His lips were as plush and soft as he imagined they'd be. He dared to lick along his bottom lip and Sherlock tentatively opened up. John licked his way inside and his breath hitched when Sherlock's tongue met his.

'Jean,' Sherlock whispered into the kiss.

'Sherlock,' John moaned. 'I... I'm going to-' He didn't get to finish his sentence as Sherlock had sucked his tongue into his mouth and was rocking against him so hard he was bouncing in his lap. He gasped and moaned loudly when he began cumming, his entire body trembling with the force of it. Sherlock sucked a possessive mark on John's neck, biting down when he too found his release. They collapsed in a heap on the floor, sweaty and sticky and out of breath.

'Dormir avec moi dans mon lit ce soir, Jean.'

John grunted in reply. He was too tired to ask Sherlock what he was saying. Sherlock gave him a gentle shove, so he slid off and onto the floor.

'Non, Jean. Up. Avec moi.'

John groaned when Sherlock pulled him up into a sitting position.

'Tired,' he groaned. 'Wanna sleep.'

Sherlock shook his head. He pulled John up to standing and lead him toward his bedroom. John didn't notice where he was headed, didn't notice it wasn't his bed he was in, nor that his clothes were being removed and he was cleaned up before clean pyjamas were put on him haphazardly. He knew he was curled around a warm body, but he didn't care. He fell asleep wrapped in Sherlock's arms, both men snoring softly and drifting off to peaceful dreams.

 

 

 

**...::-::...**

John groaned when he woke up the next morning. His head was pounding and his body ached all over. Perhaps the alcohol  _had_  been a mistake last night. Well, except for one thing.

He turned over and came face to face with a sleeping Sherlock. A little snore wuffled past his lips and his nose crinkled. John grinned at the adorable sight. He plucked at a stray curl and pulled it out of Sherlock's face. The younger man's brow creased and he began to rouse.

'Uh. God. My head,' he groaned, rubbing at his brow. He cracked an eye opened and jumped back slightly when he saw John. 'What... Oh. Hello.'

'Hello,' John said softly in reply.

'So... last night wasn't a dream?'

'No. It was real.'

'Thank god.' Sherlock pulled John in for a kiss before he could reply. John hummed and tangled a hand in Sherlock's curls.

'Je t'aime, Jean.'

'I love you, too.'

Sherlock grinned against John's lips.

'Would you object to laying in bed until our hangovers are more manageable?' John asked.

'I would not. It sounds like a brilliant idea.'

'Good.' John pecked Sherlock on the lips and turned over so Sherlock could spoon him. Sherlock draped an arm over John's waist. He nuzzled the back of John's neck and hummed. John linked their fingers together and sighed happily.

'Je t'aime, Jean,' Sherlock whispered.

'I love you too, Sherlock.'

They napped for a few hours until their heads didn't hurt as bad. Sherlock took a shower and John made tea and made some simple sandwiches. When Sherlock got out and was dressed, John went into the shower and cleaned himself up. When he re-emerged, dressed and clean shaven, Sherlock was sitting at the kitchen table eating one of the sandwiches.

'Wow. You're actually eating?'

'Don't be dull, John,' Sherlock scoffed. 'I  _do_  eat. And I do like the food you make. I've just never allowed you to see it before.'

'Huh. Well, that's good to hear. Thank you.' He grabbed a sandwich for himself and his mug of tea. He gently clinked it against Sherlock's in a toast.

'To being snowed in and finally pulling our heads out of our arses.'

'Here, here,' Sherlock agreed. He sipped at his tea before finishing his sandwich. 'I'll get a fire started.'

'OK.' John sat at the table and ate his sandwich. Sherlock started a fire and moved the furniture so they faced the warmth. He grabbed John's favourite book off the bookshelf and put it in his chair. He grabbed his laptop and began emailing Lestrade for information on any cases he could provide his insight.

'What's this?' John asked when he saw the book.

'I thought you might want to read it,' Sherlock said, not looking up from his screen. 'I know it's your favourite. I've seen you read it at least ten times since we've lived together, and its binding is worn and slightly torn, indicating you've read it multiple times before we met. I assume it's heavily linked to your childhood?'

'Yes. My father would read it to me.' John picked up the old book and stroked its cover gently. 'It's a first edition as well. Probably worth a lot of money. But its sentimental value is too high. I wouldn't be able to part with it. I just wish I'd taken better care of it. The pages are starting to come apart from the binding.'

'I might be able to find someone to fix it,' Sherlock offered, finally looking up from his laptop. 'I know someone who collects and restores antique books. She might be able to help.'

'I'd appreciate that, actually,' John said, smiling over at Sherlock. He gingerly picked up the book and sat down in his chair. 'It'd be nice to hold it and read it without worrying about finally ripping the cover off.'

'I'll send her an email later,' Sherlock said. He closed his laptop and looked at John expectantly. Lestrade wasn't answering any of his emails anyway. 'Would you read it to me? I've never read it.'

'You've never- You've never read  _The Hobbit_?'

'Never deemed it important.'

'Won't you just delete it when I'm finished?'

'No. This book is important to you. I won't delete it. I promise.'

'OK.' John sat back in his chair and eased the book open. Sherlock put his laptop on the floor and listened intently.

'"In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit. Not a nasty, dirty, wet hole, filled with the ends of worms and an oozy smell, nor yet a dry, bare, sandy hole with nothing in it to sit down on or to eat: it was a hobbit-hole, and that means comfort."'

John read to Sherlock for hours, the younger man absorbing every word. By the time John finished, the fire had waned and the room was rather chilly, but he didn't mind. All that mattered was that Sherlock actually listened to the story and absorbed it all.

'What did you think?' he asked softly, gingerly closing the book.

'It was... good,' Sherlock said.

'Just good?'

'Well, I'm withholding more judgment until I read through it again in my head a few times.'

'You can do that?'

'It's in my palace now. I'll be able to pull it out and read it whenever I want.'

'Oh. Good. That way the book won't get worse if it's being read by both of us.'

'Precisely. Now, I think it's time for dinner.'

'Is it?' John looked at his watch, his eyebrows raising in shock. 'It is. Wow. I was reading for quite some time.'

'Yes, you were.' Sherlock stood and stretched out his sore limbs. 'You might want to stretch out the kink in your leg before you make dinner. I can help if you'd like.'

'To stretch my leg or make dinner?'

'Both, if you want.'

'Um... You can help me with both I suppose.'

'Good. Though I might be more of an observer than a helper when it comes to dinner. I do so enjoy watching you cook.'

'Really?'

'Yes.'

'Alright. Good to know. I'll try to cook more often.'

'Good. Now, let's stretch out that leg.' Sherlock knelt down by John's feet and grasped his ankle, sliding his foot up to his thigh. John blushed slightly but knew there would be no funny business involved. Sherlock began stretching his leg, pushing his knee toward his chest before pulling the leg straight again. He also massaged the muscle until John felt a slight tingle in his toes.

'I'm good, Lock,' he said after a few minutes. 'I should probably stand and stretch the rest of my limbs now.'

'Hrm?' Sherlock looked up at John, his eyes slightly dilated. 'Oh. Right. Yes.' He scootched back and sat on the floor in front of the fire. John stood and stretched out his arms and back before shuffling off to the kitchen to prepare dinner. Sherlock eventually stood up and moved to watch John move about in the kitchen. Soup was heating on the stove, scones were in the oven, and tea was being made. Simple, but effective. Sherlock tested the soup and got a light slap on the wrist for his troubles, John saying something about too many cooks and to mind his distance. So he sat at the table and waited for dinner to be served. Soon a bowl of soup was put in front of him and a spoon passed over. He accepted both gratefully and began eating. John watched, nibbling on a scone, and smiled.

**...::-::...**

The rest of their time cooped up in the flat was spent conversing with Lestrade, eating, and occasionally small sexual acts were carried out. When the snow stopped and the snow could finally be cleared, John and Sherlock celebrated by running outside and having a snowball fight. When they went back inside, cold and wet but all smiles, they started a fire and changed into warm pyjamas and settled down with some tea. Mrs Hudson returned a few days later, bearing gifts from her sister. Mostly puddings, but gifts nonetheless.

'How was your time alone dears?' she asked.

'Fine, though we got snowed in,' John answered, picking through the biscuits.

'Snowed in? Goodness. Did you two cope alright?'

'Oh, we coped just fine.' John gave Sherlock a knowing smirk.

'Well that's good,' Mrs Hudson said in relief. 'I'll go start on dinner. I bet you two could use a proper meal.'

'Yes, we could,' Sherlock said, looking up from his laptop. 'And Mrs Hudson?'

'Yes, dear?'

'We'll only be needing one bedroom now.'

**Author's Note:**

> Please forgive me if you speak French and I completely butchered it. I used Google Translate for it all, though the very kind TellNearaToWrite showed me the difference between formal and familiar/informal pronouns in French. Here is what they are all supposed to say in the order they appear.
> 
> 'Of course I am, John. I was raised with money and part of my family is from France. Of course I speak fluent French.'
> 
> 'You're an idiot, John.'
> 
> 'John, there is something I must tell you.'
> 
> 'I appreciate our friendship more than anything, and I consider you my best friend, but lately something has changed in me.'
> 
> 'I developed feelings for you. Strong feelings that confused me for a long time. And now I know what they mean because I did extensive research.'
> 
> 'I love you, John.'
> 
> 'Say something. Please, John.'
> 
> 'You like it when I speak French. Do you want me to continue for the rest of the evening?'
> 
> 'More. Please. Yes, John. Yes!'
> 
> 'Sleep with me in my bed tonight, John.'
> 
> 'No, John. Up. With me.'
> 
> And the Doctor Who drinking game I found on YouTube: watch?v=bGMWHIYcPLY


End file.
